


No Flams Prepz

by zorilleerrant



Category: Static Shock
Genre: Gen, annoying therapist, contains excerpt of my immortal, some no homo in Hotstreak's writing, sort of redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 10:57:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11057523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zorilleerrant/pseuds/zorilleerrant
Summary: Written for the favorite villain prompt of Static Shock Appreciation Week 2017, Hotstreak tries to prove he's reformed because these days he only flames people instead of lighting them on fire.





	No Flams Prepz

**Author's Note:**

> The bit of Hotstreak's writing at the end is the modified first chapter of My Immortal.

“Alright, Francis, tell me what you like to do with your free time,” the therapist said.

“I told you already,” Hotstreak said, “flaming.”

“Well, alright, Flaming,” the therapist said, “I can call you that, but you have to do something for me, too, okay? Can we make that deal?”

“What the fuck?” Hotstreak said.

The therapist sighed. “I’ll call you whatever you want to be called. I can do that, right, because we have a little give and take here. And you can answer some questions.”

“My name is Hotstreak,” Hotstreak said.

“But you just,” the therapist pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, okay, then, Hotstreak. Can you answer a couple of my questions?”

Hotstreak snorted. “I already _was_ answering your questions.”

“Yes. Alright. Good.” The therapist smiled a little too broadly. “What were we talking about again?”

“Hobbies,” Hotstreak said, with a sharp nod.

“Hobbies,” the therapist repeated. “Hobbies. Do you have any hobbies?”

“Uh, yeah,” Hotstreak said, “I’ve told you this, like, twenty-six times. Yeah, I have hobbies. I like my hobbies.”

The therapist nodded, jotting this down. “Care to elaborate?”

Hotstreak pulled a face. “Doesn’t that mean ‘spit’ or something.”

The therapist sighed again. “Tell me what your hobbies are, Fra- Hotstreak.”

“I _said_ already,” Hotstreak said, “I like flaming people.”

The therapist frowned, trying not to scowl. “Now, we’ve talked about this. And you said you were trying to stay away from crime. And you’ve been following the law, right?”

“Ugh,” Hotstreak said, “not, like, lighting people on fire, just _flaming_ them, god.”

“Okay,” the therapist said, “tell me how you ‘flame’ them without hurting them. Is it just to scare them, or why do you do it?”

“No, I, like,” Hotstreak said, “oh my satan do you even have a computer.”

“I do,” the therapist said, “would you like to use it?”

“Well, yeah,” Hotstreak said.

“I tell you what,” the therapist told him, “how about you talk with me just five minutes longer, then you can use the computer for a bit.”

“Uh, well, I need the computer, to show you how to flame someone, okay,” Hotstreak said. “You can’t just, like…do it.”

“Okay,” the therapist said, opening his computer, “show me, then.”

Hotstreak spent the next ten minutes composing a scathing message to someone the therapist wasn’t familiar with, apparently in response to some sort of story he’d read earlier in the week. As the therapist read it over, he noticed that it was not only quite lengthy, almost 2000 words, but actually very well structured in the typical format of an essay. It wasn’t quite as lyrical as most people aimed for in an assignment, and certainly had quite a lot of typos, but the bare bones were quite compelling. The therapist wasn’t sure whether the grammar was wrong, or whether the words were intentionally being used in completely novel ways.

After all, he’d had no idea what a ‘flame’ was.

“There,” said Hotstreak, when he was done, a look of satisfaction on his face.

“Impressive,” the therapist said.

Hotstreak quickly covered his look of surprise. “Yeah?”

“Well, you didn’t seem to like schoolwork, so I never suggested this,” the therapist said.

“Yeah, I don’t,” Hotstreak agreed, “school is for preps.”

“But you seem to enjoy writing nonetheless,” the therapist added.

Hotstreak shrugged. “I guess.”

“Well, writing can be very therapeutically helpful, you know,” the therapist said.

Hotstreak shrugged again. “Whatever.”

“No, tell me, Hotstreak,” the therapist said, “how do you feel when you write?”

“I don’t know,” Hotstreak said, “good. Powerful. Like, I can say whatever I want, and they can’t stop me, and everyone can see what I wrote anyway. Then they know what I mean.”

The therapist nodded, smiling slightly. “And it only works when you, uh, ‘flame’, as it were? Have you tried writing other things?”

“Like what, poetry?” Hotstreak started laughing.

“Not at all, Hotstreak,” the therapist said. “You certainly could write poetry if you wanted to, and if you’re interested, I can find you some books – I assure you, it’s not all the dry and formulaic model you’ve read in school. I meant, perhaps, essays.”

“Essays?” Hotstreak repeated.

“Yes, you seem talented at forming cogent arguments,” the therapist said.

“I don’t know what that word means, but I know people who say it like that mean my writing is bad,” Hotstreak said.

“You know how to get your point across,” the therapist clarified.

Hotstreak nodded. “Well, yeah. That’s why people listen to me. Or used to.”

“Have you tried convincing people of, oh, whatever’s on your mind, I suppose,” the therapist suggested, “because you may find it both relaxing and an easier way to complete your studies than perhaps approaching them directly.”

Hotstreak waved a hand. “Of course I do, that’s why I tell people when their stories are awful. I mean, why do you think I was doing it?”

The therapist nodded. “And did you try telling people you like their stories?”

“Yeah?” Hotstreak sighed. “But there isn’t much to say, you know? It’s just, hey, man, I like this, but then you feel like a stupid poser.”

“Well, then, perhaps you should make a list of the things you like, and then write it the same way as the ‘flames’ you enjoy so much,” the therapist suggested.

Hotstreak scowled at him. “If I could just pick out what was good in a story, I could write my own, couldn’t I?”

The therapist hesitated a moment, stunned. “Would you like to?”

“Fuck yeah,” Hotstreak said, “stories are hot shit.”

“I see,” the therapist said. “Well, perhaps the best thing to do is just write one.”

“Why, so it can suck and people can flame me?” Hotstreak snapped.

“Well, perhaps,” the therapist said, “if you’d like to start arguments with them, or you could write it for yourself, and find which places work and which don’t, what you enjoy writing, what your own personal style is, what sort of narrative you – ”

“That sounds awesome,” Hotstreak agreed.

The therapist beamed.

“I totally want to start arguments with random people who flame my stuff,” Hotstreak said, beaming right back at the therapist.

 

_Hi my name is Francis F-Stop Hotstreak Burnout Stone and I have spiky fire red hair (that’s how I got my name) with blond streaks and gelled up to look like fire and black eyes like an abyss of despair and a lot of people tell me I look like Johnny Storm (AN: if u don’t know he is get da hell out of here!). I’m not related to The Rock but I wish I was because he’s a major fucking hottie. I’m a Bang Baby but I’m straight and white. I look completely human. I’m also a wizard, and I go to a magic school called Hogwarts in England where I’m in the seventh year (I’m seventeen). I’m a villain (in case you couldn’t tell) and I wear mostly fire looking stuff. I love military surplus stores and I buy all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing a deep red shirt that clung to my sculpted muscles and loose army green pants slung low on my hips, with my underwear showing and classic Vans. I was wearing just a little bit of eyeliner and mascara to make my eyes pop but nothing gay or anything. I was walking outside Hogwarts. It was snowing and raining so there was no static, which I was very happy about. A lot of superheroes stared at me. I put up my middle finger at them._

_“Hey Francis!” shouted a voice. I looked up. It was…Gear!_

_“What’s up Gear?” I asked._

_“Nothing.” he said shyly._

_But then, I heard my gang call me and I had to go away._


End file.
